Slasher
by Danja
Summary: A serial killer prowls the streets of New Gotham sequel to my previous story, 'Switch'
1. Chapter 1

Author: Danja

Disclaimer: Birds of Prey, its characters, and concepts are the property of Warner Brothers, Tollin-Robbins Productions & DC Comics.

Author's Note: This is a sequel to my previous story, "Switch". I suggest reading that one before reading this one.

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Slasher

Chapter One

* * *

From _The New Gotham Gazette (May 6th):_

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Murder Victim Found Near Gotham Square

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Gazette Wires

_The remains of 25-year-old Ana Rosa Sanchez were found lying in an alley located near the intersection of 42nd St. and 8th Avenue early yesterday morning. Ms. Sanchez died from a gunshot wound to the head and multiple stab wounds. Ms. Sanchez has a record of prior arrests for prostitution and was known to have been working as a prostitute in the area at the time of her death._

* * *

From _The New Gotham Gazette (May 8th):_

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Murder Victim Found Near Baseball Field in Central Park

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Gazette Wires

_The remains of 23-year-old Karen Marie Donovan were found lying near the baseball field at Central Park early yesterday morning. Ms. Donovan died from a gunshot wound to the head and multiple stab wounds. Ms. Donovan has a record of prior arrests for prostitution. Police officials would not speculate on whether Ms. Donovan was working as a prostitute at the time of her death._

* * *

From _The New Gotham Gazette (May 12th):_

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New Gotham "Slasher": Serial Killer?

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Gazette Wires

_The killer the police have dubbed "The New Gotham Slasher" appears to have taken another victim. Early yesterday morning, a jogger found the remains of a Caucasian female in her mid-to-late twenties lying in alongside a hiking trail located in the northwest corner of Central Park. This victim -- like two previous victims found recently -- was found with multiple stab wounds and a gunshot wound to the head. Police have not released the identity of the latest victim pending notification of relatives._

* * *

"All prostitutes with short dark hair, slender build, in their mid-to-late twenties," said Barbara as she perused the police records displayed on her computer screen. "Guy knows what he likes," she said wryly.

"Wasn't Donovan 23?" asked Dinah.

"She might've appeared older at first glance," Barbara replied. "Plus, when you take into account that she was probably last seen at night, two years isn't going to make a whole lot of difference." Barbara paused. "No evidence of sexual contact," she said as she turned back towards her PC. "Whatever this guy wanted with these prostitutes, it wasn't sex." Barbara read on. "Sanchez was stabbed 16 times … Donovan, 25 … this latest victim, 34 times…"

"Overkill," said Helena.

"That … and anger," said Barbara. "Multiple puncture wounds are usually indicative of anger being expressed by the killer."

"So … our killer's got a beef against skinny women with short dark hair in their mid-to-late twenties," said Helena. "You reading me so far?"

"More likely, he has something against a particular woman fitting that description," Barbara replied.

"What's our next move?"

"Find out where these women worked … and who was the last person to see them."


	2. Chapter 2

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Chapter Two

* * *

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Encrypted Journal Entry -- Barbara Gordon

May 26th

Two weeks … and no new victims. Why?

If you'll forgive the cliché, it's been quiet … too quiet.

According to the coroner's reports, each of the victims was shot first … and then stabbed post-mortem shortly thereafter. I take small comfort in the fact that their deaths came quickly … without prolonged suffering.

I've sent Huntress out to talk to the hookers around town. The best she's been able to come up with is that each of the victims was last seen with a guy named "Steve". This … "Steve" … has dark hair, drives a maroon SUV, and speaks with a southern accent.

That southern accent -- coupled with the profile of each of the victims -- disturbs me. I know of only one man -- one man who speaks with a southern accent, at least -- in recent memory who would be driven to commit such random acts of violence. That -- coupled with the profile of his choice of victims -- has narrowed the list of suspects considerably.

The question now -- if it is indeed HIM -- is … why? Is he sending out a signal? Or are we witnessing a display of misplaced rage?

* * *

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From The New Gotham Gazette (May 30th):

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Deputy Mayor Opens Mouth, Inserts Foot

_By Tim Sloane_

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Gazette Staff Writer

_NEW GOTHAM CITY -- While speaking at a luncheon at the New Gotham Heritage Club yesterday, Deputy Mayor Ron Carlton addressed an audience member's question about the status of the investigation into the so-called "New Gotham Slasher" by replying, "It's such a shame that this person's only into dark-haired women. I think they're performing a public service."_

_Almost immediately, City Hall sought to distance itself from Deputy Mayor Carlton's seemingly off-the-cuff remarks. A spokesman for the Mayor's office is on record as saying, "The views expressed by Deputy Mayor Carlton are strictly his own and do not necessarily reflect those of either the New Gotham Police Department or this Administration."_

_"We are outraged that anyone -- especially a member of this Administration -- would regard the slaughter of innocent women as a 'public service'," said Eleanor Randall, President of the New Gotham Chapter of the National Organization for Women. "Each woman was someone's daughter, someone's sister, someone's friend."_

_Thus far, the so-called "New Gotham Slasher" has murdered three women, most of them prostitutes. Police officials had no comment on the incident as of press time._

* * *

"You think it's Darryl Pitts?" said Helena.

"There is that … disturbing possibility," Barbara replied.

"What would drive him … to _THIS?_" Helena interjected. "The Darryl Pitts _I _knew was a rapist, drug dealer, and child molester. What's made him want to hack up prostitutes? And why choose prostitutes in the first place?"

"My guess is that he chose prostitutes because (1) they made for readily available victims and (2) if one disappeared, hardly anyone would notice. As for why he's decided to cut em up, consider the profile of the victims: all in their mid-to-late twenties, all have short dark hair and slender builds." Barbara paused. "Remind you of anyone you know?"

Helena gulped nervously. "Me?" she squeaked.

"More likely, Huntress," Barbara replied. "He may well be venting his frustration with _HER_ on the victims."

"Mmm … dare I ask why?"

"Huntress put his brother in prison for the next thirty years," Barbara replied. "In Darryl's mind, that's probably reason enough." She then changed the subject. "I've been monitoring his bank accounts," she said. "Until recently, they were quiet." Barbara paused. "Lately, he's made a series of withdrawals … rather _LARGE_ withdrawals, I might add … from an ATM on the Lower East Side. My guess is that he's attempting to live a cash existence down there."

"So … what now?"

"First, look for the maroon SUV. Check the rooming houses and residential hotels down there -- it should stick out like a sore thumb."

Helena nodded. Barbara continued, "Next, ask for 'Steve'. I'm beginning to suspect that the name might be an alias. I want to see if Darryl and 'Steve' are one and the same. Get a last name if at all possible."

Helena nodded once more. "Will do," she said.


	3. Chapter 3

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Chapter Three

* * *

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Encrypted Journal Entry -- Barbara Gordon

June 8th

After about a week of searching, we've finally found the elusive maroon SUV (a late-model Toyota 4runner, to be exact). We found it parked behind the Hotel St. Albans in the East 30's.

I ran a check on the plates; the SUV is registered to none other than Darryl Pitts. It would seem that he's back in town.

Now, our task is to see if he and this "Steve" are one and the same.

* * *

"I'm lookin' for a guy named Steve," said Huntress to the night clerk at the Hotel St. Albans.

"Got a lotta Steves in this place," said the night clerk. He was a wiry man in his mid-to-late forties with a receding hairline and Coke-bottle glasses perched on the end of his nose.

"He drives a maroon Toyota 4runner."

"I wouldn't know."

"You mean to tell me you don't record your … guests' … license plate numbers?" exclaimed Huntress. "For all you know, they could be runnin' drugs or turnin' tricks in this place!" Huntress paused. "Sure way to get shut down by the cops."

"I ain't paid to ask questions, lady," snarled the clerk.

"That's OK," said Huntress. She reached into the pocket of her jacket, pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, and showed the top half of the bill to the clerk. "I'm looking more for answers."

The clerk glanced nervously around the room. "His name's Steve Pritzger," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Only person around here who drives an SUV. Lives in 5-C."

"Maroon 4runner?"

"Yeah."

Huntress put the fifty-dollar on the ancient beat-up wooden counter that sat between her and the clerk. "Much obliged," she said as she turned and walked down the hallway that led inside the hotel and towards the stairs.

"Hey, lady!" called the clerk after Huntress. Huntress spun around on one heel, facing the clerk once more.

"Yeah?"

"You didn't hear it from me," said the clerk.

Huntress gave a curt nod, turned, and walked back down the hallway.

* * *

"Steve's" room was on the fifth floor of the hotel. Huntress stealthily made her way down the darkened hallway. Rent was cheap at the St. Albans … and it showed. A bare overhead light flickered on and off. The hallway reeked with the scent of urine. The ceiling and walls were pockmarked with holes caused by pieces of collapsed plaster.

The St. Albans -- and, for that matter, New Gotham's entire Lower East Side -- was the sort of place where one could disappear, living a life with no questions asked. A Code of Silence -- understood by all whom lived and worked here -- operated in the Lower East Side: a Code of Silence which said that you didn't squeal on your neighbor.

Huntress found Steve's room, picked the lock (as befitted a place as dirt-cheap as The St. Albans, security was flimsy-to-non-existent), and silently made her way inside. The sight of Darryl Pitts lying in bed and snoring away deeply asleep greeted her.

Huntress looked around the room. An ancient TV -- dial, rabbit-ears antenna, and no remote -- stood in a far corner to her left. To Huntress's right, six empty beer bottles lay scattered on the floor next to the bed. _Great, _she thought. _The one night I have Darryl Pitts in my sights, _HE'S_ sleeping off a bender!_ She reached into the pocket of her coat and produced a note. The note read:

HELLO, DARRYL

WE NEED TO TALK

CENTRAL PARK, NW CORNER, NEAR OLD STONE BRIDGE

FRIDAY, MIDNIGHT

BE THERE!

THE HUNTRESS

She lay the note on the floor at the foot of the bed. _He's sure to see it _THERE_, _she thought. As stealthily as she came in, she opened the door and left the room.

* * *

"No," said Oracle back at the Clocktower. "Absolutely not."

"This is our chance to bring him down!" Huntress protested. Dinah stood at Huntress's left shoulder.

"The last time you two met, you came this close to getting killed," Oracle replied, emphasizing her point by making a quarter-inch space between her thumb and index finger.

"That was because he surprised me," Huntress retorted, on the defensive now. "It's not gonna happen again."

"We know he packs a 9mm," said Oracle. "We know he's carried a .45 in the past. God only knows what he's got access to." Oracle paused. "MAC-10? Uzi? He could be pumping lead into you before you had a chance to react!" Oracle paused again. "Leave it to the police."

Huntress sighed resignedly. "All right," she said, throwing her hands up in surrender. "You win."

"I mean it," said Oracle. "This is serious." Oracle paused. "They're gonna need a SWAT team to bring him down."

_Or a superhero, _Huntress thought. "All right," she said. "I'll leave him to the police."

"Good," said Oracle. "Dismissed."

Huntress gave a curt nod, turned on one heel, walked towards the elevator, got in, and left the room.

"Umm, Barbara…" said Dinah hesitantly. "If you're through with me, I'd like to go train."

Oracle nodded. "Go," she said quietly. Dinah turned to leave and walked towards the elevator.

"Dinah…" called Oracle after her. Dinah turned back around to face Oracle.

"When Huntress meets Darryl on Friday, I want you to be there," said Oracle.

"You don't believe her either, huh?" said Dinah.

Oracle shook her head in response to Dinah's question … No. Helena's sickbed words rung in her mind: _This time … it's _PERSONAL.


	4. Chapter 4

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Chapter Four

* * *

Huntress -- sans comm set -- stood on the bike path that lay just below the Old Stone Bridge in Central Park. Tall streetlights lining the sides of the bike path bathed the path in soft white light.

_Where are you, Darryl? _she thought. _Are you not man enough to face_ ME? She glanced around nervously, feline senses keyed up. Wooded embankments lined either side of the bike path. _I'm being watched,_ she thought.

* * *

Dinah -- clad in a black hooded sweatshirt, black sweat pants, and black combat boots -- lay on top of an embankment. Her presence was concealed by the shadows that lay underneath the forest canopy. She watched Huntress through a pair of night-vision binoculars.

"Dinah to Oracle, do you copy?" she said into her comm, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Oracle, here. Over," came the reply.

"I have Huntress within visual range," said Dinah as she peered through the binoculars. "So far, nothing's happening."

"Roger. Keep me posted."

* * *

"Hello, Huntress," cried a Southern-accented voice from out of nowhere.

Huntress turned towards the voice. Darryl Pitts emerged from underneath the bridge carrying an AK-47 with its distinctive banana clip on the bottom. He stopped a few feet from Huntress.

"Darryl Pitts," said Huntress icily in reply.

"I coulda just taken my huntin' rifle and plugged ya' from the bridge," said Darryl with a drawl.

"Why didn't you?" Huntress shot back. "As if I wanted to know."

Darryl pointed the gun at Huntress. "I wanna watch you die … up close … and personal," he said.

* * *

"He's carrying a rifle," said Dinah to Oracle over the comm as she peered through her night vision binoculars.

"What kind is it?"

"Looks like an AK-47 … there's a banana clip on the bottom," Dinah replied. "Right now, he's waving it at Huntress." Dinah paused. "I'm goin' in."

* * *

"Guess this is good-bye, Huntress," said Darryl. With that, he leveled the rifle at Huntress and prepared to fire.

As if it had developed a mind of its own, Darryl's shooting arm -- and rifle -- suddenly shot straight upwards. The dumbstruck Darryl found himself aiming towards the sky.

Huntress stared goggle-eyed at Darryl in bewilderment. "What're you doin'?" she exclaimed.

"IT'S NOT _ME_, DAMMIT!" screamed Darryl in frustration as he struggled to lower his arm.

_Dinah?_ Huntress thought. _Is _SHE_ here?_

Darryl screamed in agony as he suddenly found his shooting arm being bent back behind him. His knees buckled, causing him to fall facedown onto the ground. Huntress could only stand and stare at the sight of Darryl writhing in agony on the ground before her.

"HUNTRESS!" called a voice -- Dinah's -- from the distance.

Huntress turned towards the voice just in time to see Dinah sliding down the embankment and running towards her. Upon reaching Darryl, Dinah immediately went to work. She stepped on Darryl's shooting arm and grabbed the rifle out of his hand.

"Dinah," asked Huntress incredulously. "Was that … _YOU?_"

"Yeah," Dinah replied. "Cover him," she said as she handed Huntress the rifle.

Huntress took the rifle and aimed it Darryl's head as Dinah produced a pair of small plastic handcuffs from the pocket of her jacket. She then cuffed Darryl's hands behind his back.

"Does Oracle know you're here?" Huntress asked.

Dinah stopped and stared up at Huntress. "Oracle _SENT_ me," she exclaimed, seemingly stating the obvious. She then turned Darryl over on his back, forcing him to face her. "Remember _ME?_" said Dinah to Darryl.

Darryl's face contorted with rage as he recognized Dinah. "_YOU_…" he growled. "You sent my brother to prison!"

"Your brother sent himself there," replied Dinah flatly. "He didn't want to go to jail, he shouldn't have been dealing drugs and molesting kids."

It was at this point that Darryl spit in Dinah's face. Huntress responded to the insult by tightening her grip on the rifle and making threatening gestures at Darryl.

"Huntress," said Dinah, wiping her face and raising a hand in a gesture of supplication. "That's enough." Dinah paused, gasping for breath. "I'm OK." She then touched her comm earring. "Dinah to Oracle, do you copy?"

"Oracle, here. Over," came the reply over the comm.

"Contact Reese. Tell him we've got Darryl Pitts. Also, tell him that we may have The New Gotham Slasher as well."


	5. Chapter 5

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Chapter Five

* * *

_Encrypted Journal Entry -- Barbara Gordon_

_July 15th_

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It would seem that we've caught our Slasher. According to the police records on Delphi, blood spatter and bone fragments from two of the victims were found on the sleeve of one of Darryl's jackets -- bodily tissues that could have only gotten there had Darryl fired the gun. In addition, ballistics tests have traced the bullets back to Mr. Pitts's beloved 9mm. A military-surplus K-bar knife found in the back of his SUV provided the final piece of the puzzle. The entry wounds on each of the victims matched the blade of that particular knife.

As a result of all this, Mr. Pitts is now serving a 300-year prison sentence at Attica.

I'm glad that we can finally put this case behind us. I'm glad also for Dinah -- it would seem that her four-year-old nightmare has finally ended.

* * *

"I gotta hand it to ya', kid," said Helena. Dinah was throwing jabs at the punching bag in the training room. Helena was standing off to one side, watching her.

"What do you mean?" asked Dinah.

"The way you worked over Darryl Pitts," said Helena. "That took guts."

Dinah stopped punching the bag. "I never really gave it much thought," she said. "I just had a job to do."

"If it were me, I would've killed the guy."

"I know," said Dinah with a shy smile. "What's more, Oracle knew that too. That's one reason she sent me out there. That…" Dinah resumed punching the bag. "…And to keep _YOU_ … from getting killed," she said between punches.

Helena clapped a hand on Dinah's shoulder. "Thanks for being there," she said with a smile.

Dinah stopped punching once more. "That's what friends are for," she said with a grin.

THE END


End file.
